


Scars

by AlphaRedLeader



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Edd is mentioned briefly, Emotional Manipulation, Eye Trauma, Immediately Post-End, M/M, Memory Loss, Mind Control, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Abuse, Severe Violence, Transition from Tom to Future Tom, physical scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 20:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12871962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaRedLeader/pseuds/AlphaRedLeader
Summary: Red Leader takes an early morning to ponder the various scars on his body, and just how he got them.





	Scars

Since the accident, Tord very rarely looked at himself in the mirror. He never had much reason to – being so busy, especially as of late, he rarely had half a mind to glance at the reflective surface to do more than straighten his coat or adjust his eyepatch. 

He wasn’t exactly sure why he bothered to look at himself that particularly chilly morning. It must have been three in the morning when he rolled out of bed; his body ached horribly, and his head was pounding with the tell-tale pain of a hangover. Rubbing sleep out of his good eye and making barely an effort to brush his hair off of his face, Tord rose from his bed and moved towards the bathroom, clutching his right shoulder to offset the lack of balance. 

Sleeping with his prosthetic was often uncomfortable, and the night before he’d decided to put himself through the numb pain of removing it so he could attempt to get a restful night’s sleep (which didn’t work out in his favor anyway). Leaning on the counter in the blinding light of the bathroom, he took a deep breath and gritted his teeth through the agony of re-attaching the limb to his shoulder. 

Staring at himself for a moment in the mirror with his lip still curled in pain (which emphasized the permanent snarl his face was twisted into), Tord decided he looked less like the leader he was supposed to be and more like a man clinging to the last shreds of power and control that he could gather in the palm of one hand.

Grabbing a rag from the side of the sink, he dampened it under the tap and wrung it out. Very carefully he cleaned every old scar on his face, meticulous and gentle so as not to cause himself more pain than he was already in. Sometimes these scars reopened, even as old as they were, thanks to how unkind Tord usually was with his own body. This morning he didn’t exactly want to deal with blood on his face. 

Hissing as he went a little too rough and opened a small cut on his chin, he stared at the red blood that welled in the wound. Tord knew he shouldn’t have picked at that particular scar the night before and put himself through cleaning it up when it reopened, but he’d done it anyway and regretted it now. 

Somehow it seemed like a strange notion, that he could  _ bleed _ . A man as powerful as he,  _ bleeding _ alone in his private bathroom, as if he were weak and vulnerable and  _ pathetic _ . For a moment he despised that thought, dashed it from his mind and tried to put on a brave face. But when his half-blinded gaze fell on the mirror, his broad shoulders seemed to sag and his prideful smile fell. Maybe, here alone in his private bathroom and shielded from the world, he could for once allow himself to be weak. 

No one else could see him like this, not here; here he was safe to let down his guard and push aside his pride. Here he was safe to look in the mirror and face what he’d become. Tord stepped back, took in his shirtless form. He could trace every scar that ran along his body’s length, from his chest down to his hip. His form was wiry and marked with every manner of scar – the burn wounds from the crash that had put him on this path, bullet wounds, lacerations, and a bite mark where his pet project had attacked him in fighting for freedom. 

In the public eye Tord wore these scars as a bold marker of his experiences and the strength that came from them, strength that others would never hope to compete with. He never let anyone know how badly they hurt him behind closed doors like this. Beyond physical pain, he was emotionally wounded – knowing that thanks to these constant bodily reminders, his past would never leave him. He was trapped in his own personal hell and his mirror would remind him every single day. 

Tord’s good eye tracked the trail of scars along his right side, from his bony hip and across his stomach, along his ribs and chest, up to his shoulder. He grimaced at the change in color at every mark, as his body could only be described as a disarrayed collage of pale skin that occasionally faded into raw shades of red. His shoulder was slightly disfigured, he noted, raising his flesh hand to run his fingertips along the mass of scar tissue. It all seemed to twist together into a smooth curve where pale, misshapen skin met shiny, scratched red metal. 

His heavily armored mechanical arm could use some  _ physical _ maintenance, but many sleepless nights and meticulous working, adjusting, and modifying ensured that the leader could always rely on the weapon within. He raised his arm, admired it in the mirror, and then frowned at a deep scratch along the forearm plating. Drumming his thin fingers against the metal, Tord leaned against the counter for a moment and wiped away some grime on the upper-arm plating. 

This arm was a testament to his power; he’d killed and defended with it, he’d threatened and comforted with it, and it reminded him that even though he’d come out of his worst experiences scarred and changed, he could grow and was quickly becoming stronger. 

He knew the story behind nearly every scar, and found himself beginning to linger on each memory. The burns came to mind first, across his chest and his face, down the right side of his body in its entirety.

* * *

 

His ears were still ringing when he dragged himself out of the cockpit’s wreckage. He could  _ see _ the harpoon buried in the thick red metal and at once cursed and thanked the man who’d fired it. If he hadn’t tried to shoot Tord down, the mech wouldn’t have crashed in the first place; in the same hand, however, if the harpoon hadn’t missed its mark the slightest bit (which was clearly meant to  _ kill him _ ), Tord might have been blown apart in the ruined, flaming cockpit and died. 

He was on his feet for barely more than a moment before falling to his knees among the scattered glass and shrapnel; he was suddenly aware that he wasn’t alone on the hillside. He became vaguely aware of Paul’s warm, low voice in his ear – he couldn’t hear very well on that side, he noticed, and he could only focus on the stinging in his arm and how disconnected he felt from everything that was happening. Paul hauled him back to his feet and Tord found his balance, his right arm feeling numb but warm and his entire body felt out of place. He could hear Patryk saying something to Paul, voice sounding watery and buried beneath the pounding in Tord’s head. 

Vaguely, as if watching from over his own shoulder he saw the mechanical arm in his hand – when had he picked  _ that _ up? Why? – and at some point, realized he’d sank to his knees again. His arm was bandaged; the mechanical limb was gone from his hands and he felt very cold and – and he realized all at once he didn’t know why he was here. What had happened? Who were these people with him and why did their uniforms look familiar?

When he voiced these concerns to the men ushering him into the back of their car, they exchanged a sympathetic glance and tried to explain in entirely too many words. Tord’s head hurt trying to focus on what they were saying, so he turned to look out the window at the – at the ruined cockpit. He knew he’d built that…what destroyed it? Why? He couldn’t remember somehow…

He closed his eyes as the sky darkened with the end of the day, and found himself drifting off, despite being warned against it...

* * *

 

Tord grimaced, running his mechanical fingers over the scars on his face. His memories from before that moment were fuzzy, and he’d had difficulty remembering things for a long while after that. Paul and Patryk did their best to help him, but the two generals could only do so much for their wounded commander. What he  _ did _ know was that he’d wanted revenge for a long time when he finally figured out the origin of the harpoon that for some reason he insisted on bringing with him.

He’d known that the harpoon was the source of his pain and he wanted so desperately to remember who had sent his mech crashing down. When he finally could put a name and face to the action, it put Tord on a downward spiral as he barely took care of himself – and even now was still recovering from the starvation he’d allowed himself to suffer in a fanatical revenge trip – until he had the man in question in his grasp. 

His gaze fell to the faint bite on his arm; Tord clenched his fist. Now  _ that _ was one hell of a memory, and one he found he’d rather not dwell on, even as he did.  

* * *

 

He didn’t know how long he’d left Tom to rot in that empty, darkened room. Through the cameras he watched every moment of struggle, every time the man stopped fighting to catch his breath, only to begin again moments later. There was no stopping him at this point, so it seemed that Tord would have to do this the hard way. He picked up the bag of medical supplies he’d need, and then headed into the room. 

A savage snarl greeted him as Tom arched his back, his efforts to escape renewed suddenly at the sight of the leader in the room. “Don’t touch me!” he yelled immediately; Tord curled his lip and set down the bag of supplies. 

“I’ve waited too long for this,” he growled lowly, running his hand through the man’s hair. Mechanical fingers caught in the unkempt knots and Tord’s fingers curled into a fist against Tom’s scalp. Tom yelled something offensive that Tord barely listened to; the leader lifted the other man’s head and brought it down  _ hard _ with a blank, unfeeling expression. 

_ Bang _ . The back of his prisoner’s skull knocked against the metal table and Tord seethed when Tom groaned in pain, only to make another attempt at struggling. 

“Just stop  _ fighting. _ ” He insisted, and when Tom opened his mouth to say something that started with, “ _ You commie bastard-”  _ Tord slammed his head against the table again and then again  _ and then again _ until he’d pummeled Tom into silence and even  _ then _ , he did it once more for good measure. 

When Tord released Tom, the man’s head turned and he groaned; already Tord could see the blood in his bedraggled hair on the back of his head, smeared on the table in a small streak of red. The leader frowned; he’d have to be more mindful of the force he used. Tom was a strong man, yes, but not invincible.

“I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it was stupid to assume you’d stop fighting eventually.” He grabbed Tom’s chin and forced him to look him in the eye. “Look at what you did to me.  _ You made this, _ you brought this upon yourself _. _ ”

He moved for a moment to dig through the supplies he’d brought with him and resurfaced with a scalpel. Tord shifted his grip on Tom’s face – which made the man beneath his hand squirm and bare his teeth, but he didn’t dare speak for fear of putting himself in a worse situation – and leveled the scalpel over his right eye. 

Immediately Tord felt Tom tense beneath his hand and try to turn his head, rage returning in the same moment that fear began to set in. 

“Get off me, don’t – d-don’t touch me!” Tom yelled, fighting the restraints around his chest and hips. Tord lifted Tom’s head and slammed him against the table again in a vague attempt at pacifying him. Tom’s voice died off into another low groan even as he continued to try fighting. Tord set down the scalpel in response.

The leader was very quick and methodical about preparing the sedative, hoping to put Tom under and make this easier on the both of them, one of whom was about to be in a significant amount of pain. The leader flicked the syringe and then gave the plunger a quick squeeze, forcing the air out, before making a show of pushing Tom’s head down and tilting his chin back so that Tord could get a clear shot at the man’s neck. 

“Just lay down and  _ stay still _ and this will be easier.” He told him quietly, baring his teeth as he sought out a vein and slowly pressed the plunger down. Tom stopped moving for a moment, chest heaving, dark eyes half-lidded. For the briefest second Tord thought that maybe he’d finally gotten Tom to give up the fight, and picked up the scalpel again. 

“I said  _ don’t touch me _ , you  _ bastard _ !” Tom yelled suddenly, back arching as he thrashed against his restraints and turned his face away, resisting both the sedative  _ and _ Tord’s beatings in a last-ditch effort to win his freedom. He twisted and Tord grabbed for his throat; Tom took advantage of the opening and sank his teeth into the leader’s arm, jerking his head and tearing through the skin. 

Tord recoiled, pulling his arm out of Tom’s grasp, and grimacing at the way the other man’s sharp teeth raked his skin, drawing blood. Narrowing his eye, the leader dropped the scalpel and covered the bite on his arm, noting with no small amount of annoyance the way the blood gleamed on his metal fingers. 

Not taking the time to wonder rationally why Tom’s teeth could tear into his skin like that – a reaction which he chalked up to the man’s unwavering desire to  _ escape _ and nothing more in the heat of the moment – Tord immediately leaned to pick up the dropped scalpel and slammed the other’s head down once more against the table.

This time there was no hesitation as he dug the scalpel into the surface of Tom’s eye. Immediately Tom shrieked, a pitiful sort of sound that Tord very quickly tuned out. Every so often he’d say something to the effect of, “Stay still,” or “Quit fighting,” but it all seemed to fall on deaf ears as the leader cut through Tom’s eye repeatedly and without mercy. 

After a time of mangling the man’s right eye with no amount of surgical precision, Tord set the bloodied, optic fluid-covered scalpel aside and pressed his frigid metal thumb to the corner of Tom’s black,  _ destroyed _ eye. After a moment (during which Tom writhed but did not scream, in too much pain to muster even that) Tord’s thumb pushed the mangled eyeball aside and slipped with a wet sound into the socket. The action brought a ragged scream from Tom’s sore throat. 

Tord very nearly grimaced at the action as he hooked his thumb around Tom’s eye and started to work it out of the socket. He curled his remaining fingers around it, braced Tom’s skull against the table with his other hand, and  _ pulled _ sharply, twisting his wrist as he did. Tom’s body spasmed beneath him; Tord pulled again and with more force this time, rotating the optic nerve with another twist of his wrist before finally –  _ all too quickly _ , he decided later _ – _ it snapped and Tom turned his face away in agony.

A sickening mixture of blood and optic fluid leaked down his face and Tom  _ cursed _ at Tord, growling things that the leader would later barely recall. The leader smiled, undeterred. 

Why  _ was _ he getting so much satisfaction out of this, Tord wondered of himself? Tom squeezed his eye shut and the sight only made the leader’s heart soar. He picked up the scalpel once more and turned Tom to face the ceiling; there was less of a fight this time, no biting or desperate lunging, just hollow curses in a low, broken voice; Tord laughed aloud, but there was less joy in the sound than one might expect – only the madness of a man blinded by fury and the promise of revenge. 

The second eye took much less work as Tom barely fought, turning his head in such a manner that the scalpel dragged across his eye every so often but otherwise remaining very still. By now the man was sobbing, but Tord couldn’t bring himself to care, digging the scalpel in through the wall of the eye above the pupil, scraping at the back and damaging the nerves. 

Tom’s shoulders jerked, (he yelped in pain, half-shouting, “C-can’t- can’t see,  _ Tord stop please!”)  _ and Tord picked up his head and slammed him back down again, which was enough to make Tom cease his fighting for another moment; that was all the time the leader needed. 

Tord held Tom’s eye open as he worked, cutting the outer lens off the eye little by little, for once taking his time now that he wasn’t actively fighting Tom through the agonizing ordeal. Occasionally the wounded man beneath him would cry out, jerk his head, or try to escape again, but Tord ensured every time that no such escape would succeed. 

The time came to remove the mangled eye from its socket and Tord found himself faced with a new issue. The eye was too far gone to remove in one piece like the right eye had, and so Tord set aside the scalpel and held Tom’s eyelids open with one hand.

With a sneer that he now knew his prisoner could not see, the leader pulled the ruined eye apart shred by shred, each time jabbing his finger in a little deeper to worsen the pain, scraping at the back of the socket with a cold metal finger. 

Tord wasn’t exactly sure at what point Tom had stopped fighting altogether, but he couldn’t bring himself to care either way. Making sure that Tom  _ survived  _ (no matter how mangled his face was) was his only priority – the leader wasn’t finished with that traitor just yet. 

“This could have been easy, Thomas.” Tord said coldly, barely checking over the wounds to make sure they weren’t bad enough to kill him. “You didn’t have to fight. We could have been done a long time ago.”

Tom gave a low, pained moan; it was the only indication that he was still awake after the horrifying ordeal he’d just been through. Tord didn’t even make the effort to shut him up, if only to cling to the small confirmation that Tom was still alive. He refused to acknowledge that part of him, and simply ignored it.

“But you just had to be  _ selfish _ ,” the leader went on, packing up his medical supplies. The sooner he was out of this room, the better. “You couldn’t just let me do what needed to be done, could you?” 

Tord sneered. Tom would have looked away, had he the eyes to do so. Instead he turned his head to the side a mere degree before straightening up again (Tord noted this with a small degree of joy; Tom recognized that every time he’d turned his head before, the pain of having his skull smashed into the table would follow. He would be an obedient soldier, given time and proper training.) and giving Tord a tiny nod. 

Tord grinned with a sort of sick satisfaction and started towards the door, leaving Tom alone in a cold, dark room with blood on his face and no eyes with which to count the shadows on the wall that might indicate the passing of time. 

The leader knew it would eventually drive Tom mad; at some point the situation would need to be handled, if only to further Tord’s personal plans. As he left for his personal office, Tord picked up what would end up being the first plans of a few prototype visors to give back Tom’s sight – and control him from then on out.

* * *

 

Tord didn’t realize that somewhere in the time that he’d mentally relived that memory (and this wouldn’t be the first time nor would it likely be the last) he’d braced himself with both hands on the bathroom counter and bowed his head over the sink. Taking a deep breath, he stared at his mechanical fingers and shuddered, at once proud and sickened that he remembered nearly everything down to the  _ last detail _ of what had happened in that room. 

He had since had the room closed off and had never revisited it since, knowing that the blood was still on the table and the things Tom had knocked over in his blind stumbling in the days after the event were still scattered on the floor. For a moment Tord wondered what time it was; ironically, Tom would be around at nearly six AM, likely to remind the leader that he had an extremely important meeting later in the morning. 

Tord pondered if Tom thought about what had happened (how could he  _ not _ , he reasoned, when it had been so horrible for him and satisfying for the leader) just as  _ he _ was doing at that very moment. It gave him pause; perhaps he had been too vicious that night?

Following another glance at the bite mark (and a vague thought of  _ what a bloodthirsty monster _ , though he couldn’t be sure who his mind was referring to), his resolve returned, steeling itself twice as strong as before. If anything, he had been too merciful. Tord decided not to linger on that thought anymore, as he’d already caused himself so much inner turmoil over it and wasn’t willing to suffer through more. 

The man stood up straight again and rolled his shoulders to work the discomfort out of them. His gaze fell to his metal arm, and he examined his fingers. There was a faint black burn on the shiny palm of his right hand, a mark that no matter how much he polished the metal just would not fade away; even if it did, the metal would be slightly warped as a constant reminder. 

Tord thought it incredibly ironic that even the  _ weapon _ was scarred. He didn’t need to look in the mirror for this, and so he leaned his back against the counter, cradling his metal hand in the palm of the other and rubbing his flesh-and blood thumb over the mark near the weapon’s lens. 

This was yet another memory that involved Tom; he found himself dwelling on the man quite a lot more than usual, and tried not to let those messy implications bother him, especially in the face of everything else he was dealing with. 

His mechanical wrist whirred, joints clicking as he clenched his fist, metal fingers knocking against the hard lens of his palm with the sound of magnesium alloy on reinforced glass.

* * *

 

“You  _ never _ should have disobeyed me!” The leader roared, seizing Tom by the shirt collar. “I told you  _ never _ to approach  _ him _ !”

At this point he was probably overreacting majorly, but at the same time, Tom had  _ directly _ disobeyed orders and possibly jeopardized Tord’s…well, personal life, not that it was anyone’s business but his own. That was something that the leader resolved to never forgive, and this transgression was going to seriously cost his soldier, favorite or not. 

Tom opened his mouth to say something and Tord pushed him to the ground, watching with no remorse as the man’s visor screen glitched and Tom raised a hand to stabilize it and stop the glitching. The leader raised his foot thoughtlessly and swung, kicking Tom’s jaw with such a force that it sent the man reeling, his visor glitching heavily as he let himself fall back, heaving for breath and clutching his jaw.

Tord knelt and grabbed the man by a fistful of hair; he bared his teeth in a grin – Tom tensed and Tord dragged him to his feet. He reached back for the cuffs on his belt (something he’d begun carrying specifically for punishment like this) and all but dragged Tom out of the hall, leaving a wake of shocked onlooking soldiers. 

Tord slammed the door of the adjacent room shut and adjusted his grip on Tom’s body, grabbing for his wrists and handcuffing him. The man’s fighting seemed to be of no concern to him, even with his smaller stature putting him at a disadvantage. Without a moment of hesitation and wearing a mad grin, Tord forced the other man to his knees. 

“If you _ever_ speak to him again, I _will_ _not hesitate to_ kill him.” He snarled. “If you ever so much as _look_ at him, I will kill everyone you have ever loved. _You_ belong to _me_.”

Tom looked up with a sneer on his face, his lower lip split from Tord’s steel-toed boots. 

“I don’t belong to  _ anyone _ !” he yelled in response, and Tord narrowed his eye. How could Tom have so  _ easily _ forgotten who had taken his eyes? How could Tom have  _ so easily forgotten _ who was so  _ mercifully  _ allowed him to live, and not only live but  _ see again _ and be given access to an arsenal of military-grade weapons? “I don’t belong to  _ you _ !”

Tord couldn’t even think, all but blinded by rage – a sentiment which later seemed quite ironic. He grabbed Tom by the chin and forced his face up, ensuring that the man’s LED eyes on the visor screen were forced to meet his own half-blind, wounded gaze. 

“ _ You belong to me _ .” He repeated himself, shifting his metal grip to Tom’s throat. He tightened his grasp minutely, other hand pulling the visor off Tom’s face before he stepped back. 

One day he would come to regret these actions, as he raised his right arm. The inner workings clicked, whirred, spun to life and heat radiated from the red metal casing. 

The blast wasn’t  _ nearly _ as strong as it  _ could _ have been and was aimed lower than Tord might usually strike. The brunt of the concussion cannon’s blast hit Tom in the chest and stomach, knocking the wind out of him and throwing him against the wall. Tord staggered back from the recoil and readied his arm for another shot, this one at full power. 

When he noticed Tom didn’t move at all, Tord suddenly redirected the blast to hit the wall, hoping for a moment that the shock of it wouldn’t hit the man again. 

It was an act of mercy he wouldn’t regret later in life, as it saved him from killing Tom – a man whose assistance he had come to expect and whose presence he’d later find familiar and become almost fond of. The leader dropped his arm and moved to the man’s side, but he couldn’t be soft, couldn’t just let himself –

Tord threw the visor at Tom’s feet, watching it fall on one side; a spider web of cracks shot across the visor’s screen and Tord seethed, standing over Tom with his chest heaving. Two shots in such a quick succession was taxing on his arm, and his shoulder ached following the thankless task. 

Regardless of his reasoning for doing this, Tord couldn’t just leave Tom there…could he? It wouldn’t be  _ hard _ to… but at the same time he felt very guilty for this act. When he’d walked into this room he’d been furious, but now his anger was subsiding and he realized for the first time that…

…that he was being nothing but senselessly cruel. Tom had meant no harm in what he’d done and was being punished far too severely. He was far too valuable to just beat to death like this; Tord made up his mind and picked up the visor, and then hauled Tom to his feet. 

The man let out a weak breath and slumped against the leader, so Tord pulled him over his shoulder and left to bring Tom to the medical wing. There was a moment where Tom stirred and Tord very nearly lost his composure again, but he relaxed at the shaky breath on his neck and four whispered words of submission. 

“I- I…belong to…t-to you…” Tom dropped his head, sounding terribly defeated. Tord grinned, but turned his head to hide it.

He could fix the visor later and, he decided with a cursory glance back into the room, take out his anger on someone else.

* * *

 

Tord took a deep breath to stabilize himself. His shoulder ached with old pain now that the memory was at the forefront of his mind; he gave it his all not to openly wince, even though he knew no one else could see him. 

There were other memories of such cruelty in his head. He could name every single one of them, recall nearly every detail and tell each story a thousand times over and  _ still _ feel every old ache and pain. He wished there was a way to get rid of it for longer than a few hours at most when he went and got drunk by himself in his room. 

The leader left the bathroom, taking another deep breath and closing his eye. Absently he started to dress himself, as there was no point in going back to bed. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep again without nightmares - and that was assuming that he could even fall asleep.

He had a long day of work ahead of him anyway; trying to linger on these memories like this was getting too difficult and frankly, he didn’t think he could press on. Giving the door a hard glare, he gathered himself, put on a stern face, and opened the door. There was work to do.

After all, the world’s not going to conquer itself!


End file.
